Psychology
by aavonlea
Summary: Emotions are a weakness. That was what Grant Ward was always told. They were his orders, really. He still feels the need to follow those orders, he's just not sure why anymore.


**(A/N) Hello my loyal subjects! Here's a little thing I wrote for Ward after all the hate I've seen for him. Possibly going to be a multi-chapter fic, but I make ****_no promises_**** as I am notorious for never finishing my multi-chapter fics. Anyways, enjoy!**

* * *

In the first two months after Ward was sent to prison, he thought about Garrett every day, but that was it. He just thought about him. And whenever he pictured Garrett in his mind he automatically went numb. _Do not feel. Do not care_. Those were Garrett's lessons for him. Those lessons were all he had now. Garrett was gone, so all Ward had was what Garrett had taught him.

It winded him to think that Garrett was dead.

So he did what he always did. He compartmentalized his feelings away so they were not present in him. It was a weakness. If Garrett had been there, Ward could only imagine how many bruises he'd have and how many stars he'd be seeing.

So the first two months were spent in numb silence. He didn't leave his mattress much. He took his meals when they were offered and didn't speak as he was never spoken to. He hadn't seen another person in so many weeks. It wasn't new to him. Unfeeling, cold, yet familiar.

He thought about HYDRA. And he thought about SHIELD. And he thought about the team. And he thought about Garrett most of all.

* * *

By the end of the third month in his cell, Ward was still thinking about Garrett. Only now his

thoughts weren't so numb. He thought about Garrett every day, and unlike in the beginning, thoughts of Garrett made the corners of his mouth twitch. It was around this time that Ward allowed himself to pace the tight corners of his cell with aimless intentions, only to end up lying back down on his mattress again a minute later, heaving out a great sigh.

_Do not feel,_ still rang through his brain every moment of every day, but the message was losing a small bit of its urgency as new curious thoughts - dreams, more like - of the team drifted in and out of his subconscious when he wasn't paying attention. No need to be alert all of the time, right?

He thought about Coulson and how he often seemed, not like a commanding officer, but like a mentor. He thought about May, the brute force of the team, and the pure and unadulterated rage he'd seen in her when she'd fractured his larynx. He hadn't spoken since then, but to be honest he hadn't even tried speaking. There was nothing to say and the silence… he thought the silence might be better. He thought about Simmons, and remembered how she'd always be telling him to take care of himself. He thought about Fitz, and the corners of his mouth turned down a bit, because Fitz had still been adamant to the fact that Ward still cared about the team. Fitz was right, even now, but that didn't change anything one way or another. Then he thought about Skye, and that's when he usually came out of his daydreaming, jolted into alertness by the surge of whatever it was he was feeling.

_Do not feel._ He could still hear the sound of the order coming from Garrett's mouth. Garrett's orders. Follow Garrett's orders. He felt like Garrett was still watching him, waiting for him to mess up the orders and give him hell for it.

Even so, Ward knew that Garrett always valued him. Nothing could ever change the fact that Garrett valued him.

* * *

By the end of the fourth month in his cell, something new had begun to happen to Ward. His thoughts of Garrett had not waned in the slightest. If anything, thoughts of Garrett had consumed him, and anything concerning the team had been all but completely washed from his mind. Garretts orders still rang through his head, but they felt more like a distant echo. Unimportant. Irrelevant. At the moment, at least.

And it was at this time that he first met the doctor. Or rather, the psychologist. When he first walked into the room, Ward was so shocked that he just sat there on the cot staring at the man: It was the first person he'd seen in four months. He was a short, stout man, with dark skin and short black curls. One of the first things Ward noticed about the man was that when he walked he stood up very tall, and he had a limp in his left leg. He had what looked like a naturally kind face, although Ward suspected it was just a mask he put on for his job. Judging from the neat jacket and tie he wore, and the clipboard he held in one hand, Ward knew immediately this was some kind of therapist.

In the hand that did not carry the clipboard, the man held a wooden chair. He set it down across from Ward's cot, sitting in it. The two faced each other.

"Hello, Grant," said the man with a warm smile.

"Ward," he replied in a hoarse whisper. It took Ward a moment to realize that was the first word he'd spoken since being taken into custody.

"Well, now we know your voice works, Grant," the man said.

"It's Ward," Ward said again. He didn't want people calling him Grant. It was strange, though, disliking the sound of your own first name.

The doctor acted as though he didn't hear him. "My name is Dr. Raymond Ramirez, your psychologist during the remainder of your stay in this facility. I can be your friend if you want, but I'm here to stay. I'll come on a weekly basis or more, depending on what you need. I can be here all day or all night, any time. But weekly meetings are mandatory."

Ward said nothing. He knew right then that he would never be asking for extra meetings.

Ramirez did not wait for Ward to reply. "Now Grant, I have a question for you concerning your mentor, John Garrett."

Ward knew this was going to come. They were here to question him on HYDRA. He'd expected it, but he was surprised they had waited so long to get verbal responses from him. They'd interrogated him in the beginning and he'd had to write his responses down on a notebook due to his fractured larynx. Ward looked at Ramirez, face blank.

"In a few words, describe your relationship with John Garrett," Dr. Ramirez said, catching Ward so off guard that he almost broke his blank stare.

His relationship with Garrett. This was exactly what Ward had been thinking about so much lately.

Ramirez waited for perhaps ten minutes, and Ward got the feeling the man could've waited all day for a response. However, it seemed Dr. Ramirez was not going to wait, and simply stood up and exited the cell, leaving the chair behind. It took Ward a few minutes to realize the doctor had left a paper from his clipboard on the chair, bearing the scribbled words, _If it's easier to communicate through written notes, that's fine. But I would like a response nonetheless._

Not a very long therapy session then.

A moment later, a tray of food was pushed through a slot in the door, with a pencil on it.

When the breakfast tray came in the morning he had something to push through the slot in return. The peace of paper had a single sentence on it.

_Garrett gave me a life._

However, he had refrained from adding "Garrett was the first person to not wish I was dead" to it.

* * *

By the end of his sixth month in prison, Ward came to realize that Dr. Ramirez possibly had no concept of last names. Not only would he refuse to refer to Ward by any other name than Grant, he would insist on Ward calling him "Raymond" or "Ray". He would also refer to others by their first names as well, never giving a last name. Ward wasn't entirely sure what to think of it. He'd given up on his attempts to have the doctor stop calling him Grant.

"Grant is your name," was the only explanation Ward had ever managed to get out of the man.

"So, Grant, how are you doing today?" Ramirez asked him.

"The same as every other day," Ward replied, tired of what had become a ritual for them.

"And just like every other day, I will ask you to elaborate," Raymond said, rolling his eyes but still holding up a smile that Ward was pretty sure was genuine. "I want you to speak, Grant. Today I want you to speak."

"Not much to say," Ward replied, reaching for the water bottle beside the cot and taking a sip, subconsciously wringing his hands before placing them rigidly at his sides, hoping the doctor didn't notice.

"I beg to differ," Ramirez said. Well, that answered that question. "I hope we aren't going to have to resort to notebooks again, Grant. I can't say those first few weeks were very productive."

"I can't think that notebooks would be necessary," Ward replied coolly.

"Well, they won't be. But you need to _speak,_ Ward. I'm not a mind reader," Raymond said.

"Could've fooled me," Ward said dryly. "You always know what I'm going to say, sometimes before _I_ know what I'm going to say."

Ramirez chuckled. "What can I say? I like people."

"I don't like backstories," Ward told him, thinking if he said this then Ramirez would at least drop the subject he'd been prying at for awhile.

"Well, now we're getting somewhere," Ramirez said with a smile. Really, Ward wondered if the man ever got tired of smiling. And the fact that Ward couldn't tell if the smiles were genuine or just part of the job irked him. "And I don't need to ask why you wouldn't like backstories."

"But you're going to anyway, right?" Ward asked, resigning himself to his fate. The psychologist gave a small nod. Ward sighed. "I grew up rough, that's all there is to it. There's no mythical reason for why I am the way I am, no big mystery to figure out. I'm not a puzzle."

"Oh, I think we're all pizzles. You're no exception. I just need to know the pieces I'm dealing with," Ramirez told him, and Ward thought he saw a sliver of pity within the man. This bothered Ward more than it probably should have. He didn't know what to do with peoples' pity.

"Do you think of your past with your family a lot?" Raymond asked.

That one was easy. "Never," Ward replied. "I don't let myself."

Ramirez's expression was unreadable as he stood up and limped toward the door. Just before he opened the door, however, he turned back. The doctor looked curiously at Ward for a few moments. "And Garrett? What about him?" Raymond asked.

And all of Ward's thoughts from the last six months came flooding back to him. Because, really, this was the only thing Ward had thought about at all for so long. Garrett's old orders to feel nothing were a distant echo as emotion sudden coursed through him so intensely that he thought he swayed a bit in his seat.

"Grant?" he heard Raymond say, though the sound was muffled, as if he was hearing him through water. He felt the doctor's presence at his side again, a hand on his shoulder. Ward wondered briefly whether he should shrug away the contact.

He thought about everything Garrett ever was to him. Garrett saved him, believed in him, gave him a life, gave him something to look forward to. Garrett gave him a reason for existing. If so, then why did Ward always feel a twist of doubt in his gut whenever thinking of him. Why did he now feel himself questioning everything. And above all, why was he now disregarding Garrett's most constant instruction: emotions are a weakness.

"Grant," he heard Raymond say again.

"Garrett's gone," Ward said, finally letting go of Garrett's last order, if only for the moment. He felt hot tears on his cheeks, and he knew that this was his first time crying since he was a kid. Probably the last, too. "God, he's dead. He's dead."

* * *

"Well, you wanted my full report, and there you have it," the doctor said, handing the file to the man in front of him. "Although, I must ask, why is it you've suddenly become so invested in this man, Phil?" There was a hint of bitterness in his words.

"Blunt as ever, Ramirez," Coulson responded, flipping through the file with a frown.

"I believe I have every right to be blunt. You asked for me specifically for a case like this, one you were planning on having tortured," Ramirez said tersely.

"I seem to remember you volunteered for this gig, once you read his file," Coulson said absently, his eyebrows creased as he read.

"It was personal," Ramirez said, eyeing the photo clipped to the outside of the file. The man gave a long sigh that ended in a sad frown. "Grant just needs a break. Here I was hoping you were the one person willing to give anyone a second chance, but that was before Natasha had to lobby against your idea of torture."

"I'm here now, aren't I?" Coulson replied. "I have to give you credit, though. Romanoff, too. I wasn't exactly expecting anyone to rally behind a HYDRA agent… But then again I myself wasn't very serious about torturing him in the first place."

"You treat him like he's _nothing_, Phil. _None_ of them are nothing. Not John and certainly not Grant."

"If you're going to start defending Garrett, let me stop you right there," Coulson said with a sporting attempt at a light tone.

"Of course I'm not. But they're not just nameless beings. I admire you, Phil, for your past compassion for enemies, but you've become cold," Ramirez said. "In that cell is a man named Grant Ward. He is a _man_, not a monster, and I-"

His words were cut off by Coulson's expression as he read the file. He had on a look of intense concentration as a battle went on beneath his eyes.

"I already knew about his family - that was in his last file - but it says here he's talked to you about his past with Garrett?" Coulson asked, looking up at the doctor.

"In a very offhand manner, as if what he told me was just a regular part of life. That's a concern, to say the least," Ramirez replied, frowning. Coulson continued reading for another minute or so before closing the file.

"Ramirez, what are you trying to say here? That he's broken?" Coulson asked, a conflicted look in his eyes.

"I'm saying he was never whole," Ramirez replied, pinching the bridge of his nose and giving Coulson an imploring look. "He just needs a break."

"And you think it's a good thing that he's in there crying for the loss of a psychotic maniac?" Coulson asked incredulously.

"_Loss_ being the key word. After six months he's finally letting himself grieve for the man who was his mentor and father figure. I think it's a damn good start," Ramirez told him, a hopeful grin on his face. "He would never get anywhere otherwise."

Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

"Phil, why did you ask for me to psychoanalyze him, then come all this way just to get the results personally? You had questions about him. You had _hope_ for him. What do you suppose I'm going to suggest?"

"That I be the one to give him a break."

* * *

**(A/N) You know the drill. Drop a review, let me know your thoughts as well as anything I could improve on. Unless you are a hater. If you are a hater, go away. No cookies for haters.**


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